


Burdens

by Katastrophe94



Series: Toon Town [4]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: A few weeks after they escape the studio, Bad Dreams, Epilogue story, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Some angst, Toon Henry AU, cuddle pile?, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 02:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11370789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katastrophe94/pseuds/Katastrophe94
Summary: Sometimes, the battles don't end inside our heads. Henry knows this well, and has grown used to dealing with it on his own. But after a particularly bad nightmare, the toons taking residence in his home decide that needs to change.





	Burdens

**Author's Note:**

> Toon Henry Au, because I cannot be stopped.
> 
> Takes place in the epilogue, since the fandom and Squigg's herself has unanimously decided this story will have a happy ending, gods be damned. And I am all about that life, so here ya go. Not completely without angst, though, because boy howdy, this adjustment comes with its own ups and downs. 
> 
> Takes some notes from cyber-flow's 'Dream Snooping' - http://cyber-flow.tumblr.com/post/162113538286/dream-snooping
> 
> As always, this au belongs to SquigglyDigg!

Henry hit the dirt running.

It’s hard to tell where he is at first. The world around him is indistinct, smothered beneath shadows of black, shadows that seem to twist and move with a mind of their own. There are buildings, he can tell, warped as they are in the heavy predawn smog. Most are burnt, broken shells, all cracked ceilings and charred walls, the people who’d lived inside them long having fled to safer pastures months before. The sun is barely visible, a faint grey line that’s only just breached the mountainside, the sky still weighing heavy beneath clouds of soot and smoke, so thick its choking. It threatened to be another dark, cold, grey day.

Around him, he became aware of other figures. Most are unclear shapes like the ruins around them, blurred faces and wavy frames, distinguished only by the uniforms they wore and the guns they carried. They were all heading the same way, but what their objective was, Henry didn’t know.

He only knew he had to get there.

That’s when the siren started. A loud, wailing dirge that echoed everywhere, all around him, and it sets his teeth on edge as goosebumps travel across his skin. It’s a familiar sound. It’s a hated sound. He hates it _so much_ , but it doesn’t stop for even a moment.

The ground suddenly rocked beneath his feet, and Henry pitched forward, hitting the dirt hard. He scrambled to stand, grabbing at his gun, just as a bullet whizzed by his head. It’s so close he thought he could feel it brushing against his ear, and it’s not much longer when more begin to fly. All around him, people are yelling, shouting, guns firing staccato into the hazy fog that encapsulates the world, at shadows that melt and twist and writhe. Not all of the voices sound like soldiers. In the distance, he heard a woman’s sorrowful wail cut through the chaos, pitched and piercing and pained, and somewhere else, a child screamed, they _screamed_ , _but there’s nothing he can do about it, he’s sorry, he’s_ sorry _, please stop screaming-!_

A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling, a voice yelling in his ear to get up, they had to move, they had to move now! Dazed still, Henry looked over his shoulder. The one who has him is the only one with a face, a face he knew, a face that brought a welcome relief.

The man shook his shoulder again, what blond bangs were visible plastered to his soot-stained brow. Henry tried to do as he said, made to stand, when pain lanced through his leg like a hot iron, and he collapsed back to the ground. The other man wasted no time, slinging Henry’s arm over his shoulder and hoisting him up with his own strength. But no, he can’t do that, if he does that, then he’ll-!

Henry doesn’t get to finish that thought, for right then, there’s the sound of a gunshot, and his partner staggers on his feet. A plume of red stains the air, so bright, so _vivid_ against the dark, near monochrome world around them, even when it all tilts as Henry and his friend fall. He’s shouting, he thinks, shouting and shaking the man beside him, hands pressed over the wound to staunch the flow of blood but only able to watch as once bright, laughing blue eyes turn glassy and cold.

The blood’s still pouring, running through his fingers and so hot, _burning_ hot, just like his eyes when his vision began to blur. It feels like the blood is beating against his hands, like it has a heartbeat all its own, even though the heart pumping it has stopped, its _stopped_ , it’s _gone_ , it’s _not coming back-!_

That’s when the blood starts changing. Bleeding darker and darker and darker still, until black is oozing between his fingers, thick, viscous, and so, so _cold_. Its consumes everything around him, and the heavy, strong smell of ink began to permeate _everything_ , the smoke, the soot, the blood, it all vanishes beneath its odor. Henry starts in horror when the body below him suddenly _pops_ into a shapeless puddle of black, stains splashing across Henry’s face and leaving a scar of ink across his face, and its sudden chill leaves him shaking.

But the corrupt liquid is spreading. Oozing from the cracks in the rubble, the blasted holes in the ground, the very pores of the soldiers all around him. Henry can only watch as the ink swallows the whole world. And within, he saw formless, creeping shapes begin to emerge, moaning and wailing and screaming in painful dissonance, claws extending, _reaching for him_ -

Henry reached for his gun, only to find his hand grabbing at empty air. He tried to stand, to run, but sudden hands pull him back down, grabbing at his legs, his arms, his shoulders, and he can’t move, _he can’t move-!_

A deformed face thrusts into his own, split with a grotesque grin that’s anything but joyful. The ink drips and slides away, and he can see blond hair and blue eyes in the black, _why didn’t you stop him from killing me?_

_I-I’m sorry, I tried, I didn’t want-!_

The ink shifts again, and its Sammy staring at him, half human and half twisted monster with a white and crooked grin, _you didn’t come back. You left us all to die._

_I didn’t know what he was doing, I’m sorry-!_

Again it twists, and Joey is staring at him, baleful, hateful, filled with scorn, _a traitor through and through._

And it feels like Henry can’t deny it.

The ink is rising higher, up to his chest, and he can feel its weight, feel it crushing him, smothering him, drowning him, and it’s all he can do to lift a hand to the sky in a desperate plea for salvation even as the ink covers his head and blots out the rest of the fading light.

There’s a jolt, and suddenly Henry is on his back, feeling hot and cold all at once. There are shadows over his head, shadows that speak in muffled tones, and he can feel hands on his shoulders, shaking, pushing down, _they’re pushing down_ , and everything comes back all at once, and he’s in danger, _he’s in danger-!_

On pure, unbridled instinct, he throws a punch at the figures above him, and he felt his fist collide with something solid.

The sudden, real sensation against his hand, as well as the loud yelp of pain that follows, is enough to snap Henry out of the half-dream state he’s in. He launched himself upright, heart still pounding, and his insides feeling like they’re twisting in on themselves as he cast frantic, searching eyes around the room, looking for whatever it was that had set his nerves alight, the reason for his alarm.

But as his senses return to normal, and the light from the bedside lamp begins to break away the darkness bit by bit, Henry doesn’t find enemies standing over him.

He finds the toons.

Alice is the nearest, hovering by his bedside with her hands up and her eyes wide, worried . . . and a little frightened. She looked like she wanted to move closer, to ask if he was alright, but there’s uncertainty in her motions, something that holds her back. Bendy and Boris are at the foot of the bed, the little demon with a hand on the wolf’s shoulder and another patting his back, and he kept glancing at Henry, one part worried, another part accusatory. And Boris . . .

The wolf is clutching his nose with trembling hands, and he’s whimpering ever so slightly in very real pain while small tears bead the corners of his eyes. In only takes moments for Henry to put two-and-two together, and when he does, the guilt nearly swamps him.

He’s such an idiot. Nightmares like this had happened to him before, but back then he’d always lived alone. And even then, he doesn’t think he can recall one quite _this_ bad. He’d never had to worry about someone being caught in the aftermath of an episode. Until now . . . because now, there are people living with him, ones who, in the few tender weeks they’d been outside, don’t fully understand what ‘battle fatigue’ or ‘fight response’ are. He should have explained it to them when they’d settled, but he didn’t because some part of Henry doesn’t want to share that part of himself quite yet, and now they’re all paying the price for it.

“Boris-,” he started, and he hates how soft it comes out, how rattled his voice sounds.

But Bendy cuts him off before he can get a real word in, upset and angry and confused, “Whaddya hit him for, Henry?! He was just tryin’ to help ya!”

“Bendy . . .” Alice sighs, eyes disapproving.

Boris, while keeping one hand pressed to his injured nose, reaches out with the other and places it on Bendy’s shoulder, shaking his head, voice half-smothered beneath his hand, “S’alright, Bendy. Henry didn’t mean it.”

No, of course he didn’t, but that doesn’t make it _better_. That doesn’t make what’s happened _okay_.

But now, with his adrenaline subsiding and his heart no longer hammering quite so loud, the nightmare is starting to catch up with him. A shiver runs through his body, one he can’t control, and he swings his legs to the empty side of the bed and leans over, elbows braced against his knees and hands coming up to cover the top half of his face. He lets out a long, shaky sigh, and the silence that follows is both oppressive and gloomy.

He smells ink, and he swallows to force down the nausea that rises in his throat. Slowly, softly, he asks, “Alice, could you, uh . . . open the window . . . please.”

There’s another stretch of silence, one where he’s certain the toons are sharing concerned glances between themselves. But then, he hears a rustle of the curtains as they’re pushed aside, the sound of a latch being flipped, and the window slowly grating open.

It’s still dark enough outside that there’s barely any light at all. Just before the dawn, he’d wager. But the fresh night air that gently ghosts inside is welcome, and the smell of it is refreshing, cleansing, wiping away the vestiges of his dreams and leaving a sobering quiet in its place.

Still, he feels exhausted, like he’s run a gauntlet in his sleep. But they’re often always like that. It’ll just . . . take some time. Just a little time . . .

He starts slightly when he feels a cautious hand lightly touch his shoulder, and he looks to see that Alice has dared to venture a little closer. Her eyes are sad, worried, still filled with a slight touch of fear, and Henry feels awful for putting it there.

“Are you . . . okay, Henry?” she asks him, her free hand held in a loose fist over her heart, searching him over as she waited for a response.

He sighed, allowing one hand to drop from his face, “I’ll . . . be fine.”

He glanced over her shoulder, to where Boris and Bendy both stood, and he winced slightly when he saw the wolf. With as much apology as he can muster (which is quite a bit) he said, “Sorry, Boris. It wasn’t intentional . . .”

But Boris, being the good-natured pup he was, only nodded and smiled, apology immediately accepted, “Aw, I know you didn’t mean it, Henry. _We_ shouldn’t’a snuck up on ya like we did. We were just worried, ya know . . . we thought that ya’d . . . hurt yourself, or something. You were . . . makin’ a lot of noise . . .”

None of the toons looked him in the eye as he said that, and Henry flinched for an entirely new reason now.

“Yeah, um . . .” he self-consciously scratched at his nose, eyes going to the floor, “It’s nothing. Just a . . . bad dream.”

“. . . do you want to talk about it?” that tentative question came from Alice. Its asked in kindness, an invitation to speak, to get it off his chest . . . but Henry has spent most of his life just dealing with his nightmares on his own, and the idea of opening up just like that, right then and now, it . . . it made him uncomfortable.

“No, its . . . it’ll fine, Alice. I’ll be fine,” is his only reply. She looked sad, but like always, she doesn’t press him.

A twinge in his right hand distracted him then, one he hadn’t noticed before. With a wince, he lifted it up and examined, for the first time noticing the shallow cut that runs down from the bottom of his pinky to the heel of his palm. Blood is welling up from it, leaving a crimson slash across his calloused skin, and an unpleasant sensation of biliousness has him curling his lip.

“Oh!” Alice gasps, reaching out and gently grabbing his wrist, “Henry, what happened?”

Henry looked at her, then back to the wound, “I . . . probably just banged in it my sleep. It . . . happens.”

“Well, we need to fix you up! I’ll get the first aid!” he can see that Alice is already determined to do at least this one thing, so Henry decided that if he’s not comfortable with her being his shrink, he could let her play nurse at the very least. It’s not long before he’s relocated to the downstairs living room on his favorite reclining chair, Alice all a-twitter as she took Boris by the hand to fetch the bandages she’s after.

“Oh, it’s alright, angel, you don’t gotta worry about me none,” Boris said to her as she led him away, tapping the comical bump on his nose, “Don’t even feel it!”

“A bandage never hurts, Boris!” Alice said to him as they both vanished around the corner.

Henry felt a faint smile of amusement tug the corner of his lips, leaning back as he pressed the towel Alice had given him to his hand. Nearby, sitting on the arm of the couch, was Bendy, who was idly swinging a leg over the side but watching Henry with an unusually intense scrutiny.

Henry waits for him to speak, because he knows the devil wants to, and his patience is very quickly rewarded, “Soooo . . . ya get bad dreams a lot?”

“Sometimes,” he replied, “They’d . . . gotten less, as the years went on, but uh . . . they’ve made a comeback.”

“In a big way, huh? I mean, you were runnin’ like a jackalope!” There’s a laugh, but it doesn’t really stick, and it petered out very quickly. Henry doesn’t laugh at all.

Slowly, in a very rare act of contrition, Bendy glanced away and mumbled, “Sorry . . .”

Henry nodded, but doesn’t respond. He’s still feeling a little raw and worn out, and while the apology is appreciated, the joke is not.

Silence followed for a little while, and a frown soon appears on Bendy’s face, and his leg swings just a little faster.

Then, “. . . was it about that one guy? The soldier with the blond hair?”

It takes a moment for Henry to comprehend what Bendy said. But it only takes a moment, and as soon as it sinks, his eyes blow wide open, heart almost seizing, sitting upright so fast his chair rocked and his gaze snapping to Bendy so quickly his neck cricked. Its only then that Bendy seemed to understand what he said and realized how he _shouldn’t have known a thing about that_ that his face drops into one of shock . . . then shame.

“How-?”

“Isawitinadream!” Bendy’s words run almost frantically together as his hands shoot up, but even when Henry picks the words apart, it clarifies nothing.

Slowly, Henry’s eyes narrowed, “Bendy. Explanation. Now.”

The little demon abashedly rubs his arm, a small runnel of ink beginning to slide down his brow, “Um, well . . . way back in the . . . the studio, back when I was pullin’ all those pranks, I hit ya with some sleepin’ powder. I had a whole gag set up, y-ya know, the usual, but then a dream bubble popped up over your head, and it looked like you were havin’ a tough time with it, so I thought it was somethin’ embarrasin’. Somethin’ I could . . . use against ya, so I . . . went . . . inside . . .”

“And you found a nightmare instead . . .” Henry said, leaning back against his chair.

His brow is knitted tightly together, the beginnings of a scowl taking shape. Rationally, he knows he couldn’t have expected Bendy _not_ to do something like that back then, to take advantage of any weakness he could find. But even so, the invasion of privacy he feels is _staggering_.

Bendy must see it on his face, because the demon rubs the back of his head, stuttering, “I-I’m sorry! I-I know you’re probably real mad right now, but I-I didn’t know, I _really_ didn’t, and-,”

“Bendy.”

The little demon immediately goes quiet, looking very much a like a child with their hand in the cookie jar (which had already happened once, so it’s not an inaccurate comparison), awaiting a scolding. But Henry just sighs, leaning his head back against the chair, “I know you didn’t know. It’s just . . . I’ve kept that stuff to myself for years now, for a reason. And being snooped on inside of a dream bubble isn’t exactly how I wanted others to find out about it.”

Bendy flinched, a guilty expression on his face.

“Just don’t do it again,” Henry said. He already knew full well the demon couldn’t even if he wanted to . . . but it felt right to say it.

Another stretch of silence, when a soft mumble catches Henry’s attention, “. . . I locked all that stuff up afterward, ya know?”

Henry raised an eyebrow, “What?”

Bendy shrugged his shoulders, not quite meeting the animator’s eyes, “The fake guns, and the grenades . . . I locked it up. I said to myself back then that they were just old gags, ya know, nothin’ anyone was interested in anymore, but . . .” a slight shudder ran through the toon’s body, “It was _bad_ , Henry . . . it was really bad . . .”

Henry’s eyes softened a bit, “I bet . . .”

Bendy’s leg was bouncing again, and it was very clear he wanted to ask something but was, for once, hesitant to. Not sure if he would regret it quite yet, Henry decided to slowly say, “What is it, Bendy?”

“I just . . . uh . . .” Bendy still looked hesitant, but now that he’d been given the okay to go, it was impossible for him to not ask, “What was that guy’s name? The . . . blond guy.”

Oh . . .

Henry glanced down at his hand, jaw clenching and unclenching. He guessed this would have come about sooner or later, but . . . it had been such a long time since he’d genuinely thought about it. Such a long time . . .

But as he thinks about Bendy’s question, he can’t stop the faint twinges of reminiscence that come with it. Faint memories that had remained unstirred for years, rising up from the depths as the dust was blown from them.

Softly, very, very softly, he said, “Jonathan Foster.”

Bendy perked up a little, interested and possibly relieved Henry wasn’t angry at his inquiry. He’s quiet too, plainly eager to hear more, and Henry idly tapped a finger against the back of his cradled hand, “He was . . . a war buddy. Assigned to my unit. We went on damn near every mission together. He was very animated, liked to make a big scene out of little things to make the boys laugh. Man was a one-man comedy act. He . . . wasn’t the first friend I made, but . . .” Henry paused, exhaling, “You know, in the army, it’s very stiff upper lip. Toughing things out, being a man, laughing things off . . . that sort of thing. So a lot of ‘em . . . well, let’s just say I was the butt end of some jokes whenever I pulled out the sketchpad I had and started drawing.”

That caught Bendy’s attention, “You drew?”

“Course I did. It was a way to break from what I was doing, and I . . . I missed doing it,” Henry’s own leg is bouncing now, “Jonathan was the only guy who was interested in what I did, never mocked me for it. He’d ask me questions about what I drew, point out mistakes, he’d even give me some ideas. And I liked that about him. It was nice to have someone around who wanted to learn a little more about what I did before the whole war started. He even told me once that he looked forward to seeing what I would do once the war was over, and that he’d swing by the studio from time to time, check it out, meet the crew . . .”

It suddenly grew very hard to talk for a moment, and Henry had to swallow past the lump in his throat to get it back down.

Bendy’s face had grown very subdued, “But he didn’t make it . . .”

“. . . no,” Henry whispered, breathing out a shaky breath, “After . . . after he passed, that was when I put my sketchpad down. I said I’d pick it up again after the war was over . . . but I never did. I never could.”

More silence fell between them, the only sound the ticking of the old grandfather clock from the hallway entrance. Until, a soft sniffle made Henry look up.

Alice and Boris were both leaning around the corner, having watched silently for who knows how long. They both had tears in their eyes, as well as guilt for being caught, and they both slowly walked into the room, heads down.

Henry sighed, “I was wondering where you two were.”

“We’re sorry, Henry,” Boris said, sniffling slightly. There’s a fresh bandage on his nose, one that’s cleared the wound right up, and his paw is wrapped around his upper arm, “We didn’t want to interrupt, a-and we just . . .”

“ . . . heard a lot,” Alice added, wiping her eyes, “We’re sorry . . .”

Henry shook his head. He was really going to have to teach the toons the value of privacy at some point, “It’s . . . well, maybe not fine, but what’s done is done.”

The two shared a look, before Alice stepped forward, holding up a bottle of disinfectant and a roll of bandages. Quietly, Henry held out his hand and let her do her work, wincing only a little as when she applied the alcohol and tightened the bandages around his hand.

Flexing them experimentally, he nodded in satisfaction, “Good as new. Thanks, Alice.”

The angel smiled, though it’s a little smaller than it should be, “I’m glad I could help.”

Henry let a small smile of his own slip, but now, he can feel his eyelids drooping. And all around, the toons look tired too. God, how early is it, exactly?

“We should . . . probably go to bed,” Henry said, leaning up. But even as he said it, he doesn’t fancy trying to sleep right now. Not so soon, anyway. And especially not knowing that, if another nightmare _did_ occur, the toons might suffer the brunt of it again, however unintentionally, “I, uh . . . might stay up a little longer, though.”

“But you look exhausted, Henry,” Boris pointed out, not unreasonably.

“I know, but,” Henry scratched the back of his head, “It’s a better idea for me to stay awake for a little while. For now.”

The toons all look at each other, and with his head lowered as it is, he doesn’t catch the look the three share.

At least, until a blanket is suddenly dropped on his lap and his recliner is just as suddenly knocked back, startling him out of his thoughts. After a long moment of giving the toons a puzzled stare, he slowly inquired, “What are you doing?”

“Well, you don’t want to sleep, but it ain’t right bein’ all alone right now,” Boris said, sitting down and crossing his arms over the tops of Henry’s legs, “So . . . we’ll stay up with ya!”

Alice nodded, and before he can protest, she’s already squeezed herself next to him, enough that he has to bring his arm over her to make space. One thing he has definitely noticed is that the toons are much more handsy than ordinary humans, especially Boris and Alice. While it’s not a _bad_ thing, its certainly something that takes Henry some getting used to.

“We can read a book!” the angel said excitedly, “Like the one with the girl who has my name!”

She’s already got the book, Henry can plainly see that, though when and how is a mystery. Bendy makes a gagging sound from where he’s sitting on the arm of the couch, not having made to move closer to them, “Blegh! Boring!”

Alice glared at him, but it’s more in play than genuine annoyance. Still, she held it out, and her eyes are so very hopeful that it may have been an actual crime to say no. With a sigh, Henry took it. Joey may have taught them how to read, but the toons certainly preferred a story when it was being read _to_ them. He was unsure _why_ . . . but right now, it might be a good way to take his mind off of things.

 “Why don’t ya come over here, Bendy?” Boris suggests.

 The demon waves a hand, “Nah, I’m good riiiight here.”

“It’s much warmer over here than over there,” Alice said, trying to entice him.

“Psh, you might like that cuddle stuff, angel, but not me!” Bendy replied, adamantly refusing to move.

“Hmph,” Alice frowned, but instead of arguing, she just leaned back against Henry and waited for him to start reading. Boris, meanwhile, catches her eye, and when Bendy isn’t looking, he gave her a wink.

Henry doesn’t know what that means, but Alice has started nudging him in the side, so, without much in the way of fanfare, he cracks the book open and began to read.

His eyes are drooping heavily by the time he notices that both Boris and Alice are asleep. Boris is snoring, nose bouncing up and down with every breath, and the glow from Alice’s halo has dimmed considerably in her sleep. Slowly, he glanced at where Bendy was sitting, to find that the devil has his back turned to him, for all intents and purposes looking just as knocked out as his companions.

Sighing slightly, he closed the book and carefully set it down beside the chair, careful not to jostle the angel sleeping next to him. He leaned back once that was done, contemplating if he should try moving. He discards the idea quickly. There was no point in waking them up, and though his neck might not thank him in the morning, it’s not as if he hasn’t slept in this chair before.

He felt significantly calmer now. More so than he ever had before with a nightmare that bad. Maybe it was the company, maybe it wasn’t . . . but he can’t say he dislikes it.

He’s very nearly asleep too, when the slightest shift on his unoccupied side startles him awake again. There’s nothing again for a few seconds, like a mouse that’s afraid of being caught by a cat. Henry keeps his eyes shut, and it’s not much longer until the chair shifts again and a weight lightly drops beside him. The blankets shift slightly up before settling, and he feels a head nestle into the crook of his arm.

With a faint smile and without bothering to open his eyes, he whispered, “I thought cuddling wasn’t your thing.”

The only response he gets is a soft, and slightly embarrassed, “Shut up and go to sleep, old man.”

Which, eventually, he does, one that’s blessedly devoid of any bad dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Cuddle pile. Fuck yes.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed that! I might be taking a slight break away from it for just a little while, though, because I do feel like me and all the other writers (blessed as they are) are kinda taking the au away from Squigg's. So Imma let her take the reigns again before I write another. ;)
> 
> Its not the end, though! Never!


End file.
